money in his pocket, to Winton to buy clothes; for his single suit, though neatly patched and mended, was no longer very presentable. Now even the recollection of this added to Rodman's discomfort. Had Brian, looking down from the neat little runabout, despised his shabby appearance? Had Harriet herself, sitting so silent by him, done so, too? But the thought of Harriet suddenly refreshed him. "I can trust her!" he said aloud. And so, with less buoyancy than at first, but with more true courage, he trudged onward to the town. There he went to the store which Nate had described to him, bought a ready-made suit, and left it for slight alterations. Wandering again out into the streets, he sought another store, where he bought for Nate several balls of twine. It was here that he found, higgling over a purchase, a tall and lank countryman in whom he thought he recognized a man whom Nate had. described to him. Waiting until he had finished his purchase, Rodman spoke to him. "Are you Mr. Johnson?” "I be." The farmer turned on him an inquisitive eye. "An' you 're the youngster thet Nate tol' me about. He said you 'd want to be lifted home." "I should be glad if you could take me," answered Rodman. "Wal," said the Yankee, "I'm travelin' home light, so I kin take ye an' welcome. An' I'll git ye there before the ball game, too. My son's to play, an' I want to see it." So Rodman, pleased at the prospect, and with a half-hour on his hands, wandered out into the streets to see what he could see. Winton was not a large town, and did all its business in a short length of main street. At the first corner, Rodman came upon Harriet and Brian, who, standing in a doorway, were talking so earnestly that they did not see him. Brian's face was dark with disappointment; Harriet was looking at him apologetically. "But even if you wait for the next mail," Brian was arguing, "you are n't sure that the package will come." "I know," answered Harriet, with a kind of shrinking firmness. "But I must wait, Brian.” "All right!" exclaimed Brian, in that tone of vexation which invariably means that all is not right. Leaving her abruptly, he hurried away. Rodman, wandering onward, now discovered a bake-shop, whose odors, issuing temptingly into the street, reminded him that he was hungry. "Git yourself some lunch," Nate had said. So Rodman, entering the shop, presently found him self in a seat by the window, satisfying his hunger with a dish of baked beans, and looking forward to a turnover. His position gave him the best of chances to study the street. He saw Harriet, with a troubled brow, going from shop to shop making purchases. He saw Brian, in the druggist's opposite, drinking soda, and thence emerging, strolling about, still scowling, but smoking a cigarette with an air. Next he saw the man who was to "lift" him home stop Brian and speak to him. Brian's scowl, scornful at first. rapidly lessened and changed into a smile. Leaving the farmer, he walked quickly down the street, looking eagerly to right and left. Rodman thought, "He's hunting for Harriet." It was in front of Rodman's open window that Brian and Harriet met. She was passing slowly by when she heard her cousin call, and turning, she awaited him. Rodman, situated a little above their heads, was naturally unseen, and heard their first words. "Oh, Harriet," began Brian, quickly, "there 's a man-" He stopped, as if he did not know how to proceed. "Mr. Johnson, yes," answered Harriet. saw you talking with him. What of him?" "I Brian evidently resolved to continue. "Look here," he said. "That horse of yours is perfectly safe for you to drive alone. Why, he was a perfect sheep all the way over." "Yes, he was," agreed Harriet. Rodman saw from her face that she instantly understood what Brian was going to propose. As for himself, Rodman wondered what he ought to do. Should he rattle with the dishes to warn them of his presence, or should he go away? Meanwhile the talk continued. "Well," went on Brian, with growing embarrassment, "Johnson says he can get me home in time for the game. He saw me, and offered to take me." "Yes," said Harriet, quietly, her eyes cn Brian's face. Brian grew red, but he persisted. "Pelham said he needed me to play short-stop. Now don't you think I'd better go?" "Why, Brian," answered Harriet, "I can't decide for you." "You 're not afraid to drive home alone?" he asked. "Afraid?" Harriet flushed. "Certainly not!" "Well, then," decided Brian, “I think I 'll go. I can't help you, you know, and I can be of use to Pelham. I'll just go and tell Johnson that I'll be with him." And eagerly turning, he shut out from his sight Harriet's searching look. (To be continued.) THIRTY-NINE boys and girls, with seventy-eight round eyes and seventy-eight listening ears, were gathered in a breathless, silent group. They were in a public library of New York City. Outside there were street-cars humming and clanging, wagons clattering, automobiles honking, feet tramping,-all the countless noises of a great city merging in one giant roar; but not one of the seventy-eight ears heard a sound of all this hubbub. They were fixed upon the story-teller who sat in their midst, in the library's story corner. There, to that spellbound circle of young Amer LINE OF CHILDREN APPLYING FOR CARDS IN THE JUVENILE ROOM OF A BRANCH LIBRARY. to the children of Norway. He The boys and girls crowded a bit closer, just as you crowd about your mother when she reaches an exciting part of the story. "And at other times he takes another formwhat do you suppose?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the black, mysterious woods loomed about her. One little girl, tense, her eyes fairly starting, leaned forward and gripped her chair tightly. "And at times the wicked old troll takes the form of a great-furry-growlingterrible-bear!" "Oh-h-h!" said the little girl with a frightened cry; and at that everybody burst out laughing, she along with the others. "I thought I saw the bear!" she said. You see she had such a keen imagination that the story was real to her. So, in a quick, vivid sketch, the story-teller gave these children an idea of what the troll is supposed to be, for they were to hear many of Asbjörnsen's "Fairy Tales from the Far North," as well as other Scandinavian legends; and since the troll is an old fellow whom one often meets in them, it's as well to be acquainted with him in the first place. Not a very pleasant acquaintance, perhaps; but inasmuch as he confines himself to the other side of the world, the thirtynine young New Yorkers were not really alarmed, but were merely having those rather delicious creeps up and down the spine which we all enjoy when we know, away down in our minds, that it's only a story, after all. You may be sure there was no whispering or scuffling of feet while the absorbing tale of Ashiepattle progressed. How delighted they all were when he shouted, "I'll squeeze you just as I squeezed this white stone!" and the troll begged, "Oh, dear, oh, dear, do spare me!" What a triumph when the young hero, by his quick wit, actually tricked the old sinner into "Now a troll," said she, "is a creature known putting himself to death! Then the story-teller ican citizens, she was telling the strange Scandinavian tale of "Ashiepattle who Ate with the Troll for a Wager." showed the children a little wooden troll which had been carved in Norway by one of that country's famous wood-carvers. When it stood on two feet it displayed the face of a hideous old man, and when it dropped to all fours its head turned over and displayed a bear's face. I wish that every one of you boys and girls who have all the stories you can listen to-to whom some one always says "Yes," when you cry "More!"-could happen in on one of the story hours which are now becoming established in several cities as a prominent feature of li are unknown. Did you ever go into the street after you had just stowed away the last bite of mince-pie you could hold at the end of a huge turkey dinner, and see a little pinched girl feasting her eyes-merely her eyes-on a pile of steaming chestnuts on a vender's stand? Once I did. Did you ever turn away from your stack of Christmas gifts, piled so high that you could n't remember what half of them were, and see a little chap passing, tenderly hugging a rag lamb which had lost two feet and its tail? This happened to me. And I recall both of these pic brary work. It might give you just a bit of a pang to watch some of the eager, pathetic little faces; but we 're none the worse for that sort of a pang now and then. You see, so many of the children who gather in the story corner, shut off by screens from the main room, are actually hungry-story-hungry. There's more than one kind of starvation in this world; heads and hearts can be as hungry as stomachs. They live in homes barren of books, homes where everybody is so busy that there's no time for stories, and so they are famished for all the good things which lie between covers. ST. NICHOLAS never enters such homes. Fat, luscious volumes of fairy lore tures whenever I come upon the hungry groups, eyes and ears and even mouths open, gathered for a library story hour, being fed fairy tales that are dainty, fairy tales that are creepy, tales of adventure and of heroism, tales of fun and of pranks, tales of travel, biography, and history, folk tales and legends-oh, so many more that it's like reading the menu of a great banquet to name them all! Several cities, among them Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and St. Louis, include story-telling in their library systems. New York is such a large and unique city that it is especially interesting there. The supervisor of stories has struggled for five years, and gradually she is coming to see the wonderful results of all her efforts. Last year, there were regular story hours in thirty-six of the forty branches, and this means that forty thousand children listened to tales. Miss Anna C. Tyler, the supervisor, visits these branches, tells a story herself, and plans a course which one of the librarians is to tell until she comes again. Thus there were more than sixteen hundred story hours in that great city during the year. When I think over the many people who are doing great work to make the lives of boys and girls happier and better, the story-tellers are to be reckoned with. Some people are giving their life's work to rescuing the poor-housing them when homeless, feeding them when hungry, nursing them when sick-but it is a noble work, too, to throw open the doors of books to them. These librarians do not think it enough merely to place books in a library, set chairs and tables about, and say, "Come in if you like, read if you know how." Many children are too ignorant to know how to use and enjoy the books when they come. The librarians say, "We must invite them, urge them, then show them the treasures we have here, and tempt them to seek those treasures for themselves." Such volumes as Grimm's and An dersen's tales, Hawthorne's "Grandfather's Chair," and Seton's "Rolf," often stood unopened on the shelves. The children knew how to read the schools had taught them that-but many of them did not know how to enjoy reading. So the libraries put their heads together to find a way to lure. They hit upon the plan of telling one of the most delightful stories of a volume as a sort of opening wedge to the whole book. It's like giving away a sample package of soap or cereal, you see, to make people want a larger package. Say, "Here's a good book of American history," and the book gathers dust upon the shelf. But say, "There will be a story told next Friday at four, and all who wish to hear it may obtain tickets by showing their library membership cards," and the tickets give out long before the eager line is satisfied. All of us, boys, girls, and grown-ups, like to listen to and watch an interesting speaker. It may be only the familiar narrative of Paul Revere's ride she is recounting, but it gains vividness and excitement in the telling. Over and over it is found that, after such an hour, the children flock to the shelves seeking more on the same subject, or by the same author, now that their interest has been aroused. It 's no small gift to be able to tell a story |